We Remember
by mapplepie
Summary: "I can't die! It's the same every time! I wake up in bed the next day and no one ever remembers!" ...But that's not true, Kenny. Stan and Kyle both beg to differ. And one of these days, they'll admit it. So... just stay alive and wait for it, okay?


_A/N: I think there was an episode before the Mysterion thing where Kenny mentions his deaths to Stan in the passing, but I can't remember which episode… or am I just imagining things? Not that it really matters, but I'm just kinda curious._

_There needs to be more Kenny centric episodes... he's just too awesome._

**We Remember**

* * *

><p>"<em>What are you talking about?"<em>

"_Very funny, Kenny."_

It was an agreement the two of us had.

Kenny screamed in frustration every time he tried to explain, only to have confusion thrown back into his hooded face. But he didn't need to. We knew. We always had. _He_ just didn't know that.

Nor did Stan and I give any hints that we did.

"_I can't die! It's the same every time! I wake up in bed the next day and no one ever remembers!"_

We would give him blank stares, laugh at him, change the topic, but that didn't mean we didn't know. No, we both knew very well.

And it _scared_ us.

We found out purely by chance when I discovered a video camera I left running, and decided to play it. It was horrible. It was gruesome. It was the _death_ of Kenny McCormick.

The next thing I knew, I was calling Kenny's house in panic, and then _**he**. _Picked. Up. The. Phone!

My head spun, phone dropping to the ground. Was it a joke? A hoax? A look-a-like on camera?

But that couldn't be it; there couldn't be look-a-likes for all four of us! They couldn't all talk like us, or know the things only we should know.

But that only meant one thing; we forgot. We _forgot!_ Why? How? How could we forget a friend's death? And how did he survive?

I spent hours pondering the question. Stan joined me along the way. Our memories had been wiped, but the video camera was not affected – that was what Stan and I finally came up with. There was no other reason. There was no '_how'_ but only '_what'_, and even then we still needed proof.

I brought my camera around with me for days after that. Stan kept a sharpie in his pants.

And then the next thing we knew, Kenny _died_. _Again._

My hands fumbled for the '_on'_ button of the camera, and beside me, the cap fell off Stan's marker.

"_Oh my God, they killed Kenny."_

"_You bastards!"_

The words flowed out of our mouths unconsciously… _again_, if we were to trust that video. And honestly, right now, **_I really did._**

* * *

><p>The day was beautiful outside, but really, it was the weekends. Who goes out to play on Saturday mornings? There were cartoons on TV I couldn't miss. I'm sure my friends were all attached to their couches doing the same, like every other Saturday. The day was going splendidly with the weekend specials and all… <em>– But then Stan suddenly called me.<em>

His voice was wary, almost trembling on the phone, "Kyle, why are the words '_Kenny died! Watch the video!'_ scribbled on my hand?"

I frowned, "Video? You mean the one I showed you a while ago?"

There was no answer.

"Stan, when did you write that?" I asked suddenly, on an impulse.

His answer was simple. "_I don't remember."_

"But-"

And then everything fell into place. We forgot. _**Again**._ "I'll be right over with it!" I shouted, scouring for my camera.

And then at Stan's house, we watched, horrified, but strangely fixed to the screen. The scenes – they were so familiar, yet foreign, and neither of us could remember a thing.

We didn't dare to utter a word. The Fatass no doubt would blab it to everyone he knew as soon as he caught wind of it. We couldn't let him make light of something so major. So _horrible_.

The last thing we both expected was that Kenny remembered his deaths as well. How do you deal with dying over and over again without cracking? Without losing your sanity?

_But then he proved us wrong._

Perhaps that was his breaking point when he screamed out his confession to everyone. It shocked Stan and I blank. No one else paid his words any heed. He yelled and cried, and then Stan did the only thing he could think of – he changed the topic.

And that really seemed like the safest choice.

The next days, and then after, we started to pretend that we didn't know. Who knew how admitting our knowledge would change things?

What if Kenny died again and _stayed dead_ just because whoever – whatever - was keeping him alive found out that _we_ knew? What if telling Kenny we remembered was the key to keeping him dead?

_We couldn't take the chance._

Kenny was our friend, and if what it took was keeping back the truth just to keep him from permanently dying, then so be it. We would take no chances. Frustration was better than death.

So when Kenny died again, Stan and I followed our routine:

"_Oh my God, they killed Kenny."_

"_You bastards!"_ – just in case this might've also been the magic words to Kenny's revivals.

Our only indication the next day was the Sharpie dot on Stan's left hand that appeared mysteriously overnight. Seeing it, we'd fear, phone Kenny, find relief, and then life continued onwards like usual.

There was nothing else we could do.

And perhaps one of these days, when we're old and wrinkly, without the fear of dangerous juvenile stunts killing our friend every other day, we could sit back together and talk. And amidst all the fat jokes about Eric Cartman, we could tell Kenny, "_We remember; we always knew_" and give him the peace he always deserved.

Because we owe him that much, and so much more.


End file.
